


The Millenium Bug Affair

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuryakin and Solo wait out the change of the millennium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Millenium Bug Affair

The U.N.C.L.E. Information Systems area seemed much too active for a Friday night, especially for a holiday. Programmers sat at their PC’s either working on an on-going project or surfing the net for any signs of Y2K troubles in the Eastern Hemisphere. In the corner, where the ancient coffee maker usually ground out high-octane tar to fuel the late-night implementations of new software, a half-case of champagne chilled in a metal tub.

In the back, an older man sat in front of a monitor, his head buried in a book. He had longish white-blond hair, a slight build, dark grey steel-framed glasses, and a pair of cold blue eyes that discouraged direct contact. Most of the programmers there hadn’t been born when he had served actively in Section Two, so he felt he had nothing in common with them and didn’t want to waste the energy in conversation. Nevertheless, the programmers had all heard of him and his exploits as far back as Survival School. They knew of his reputation, so they gave him a wide berth even as they wondered what the hell he was doing there on the last night of the old millennium.

Illya Kuryakin had heard them all whispering, of course, and had noted the pointed gestures that they had tried to hide. Right now he calculated the opinion running 60/40 of he had nowhere else to go vs. he was convinced the world would end at midnight so he wanted to be in the best place he could think of to survive. The real reason he sat reading in an allegedly ergonomic chair with half an hour to go until the ball dropped in Times Square would have bored the goatees off of them. He took in the pitying glances, the whispers, and the pointing with amusement.

A wave of awed silence rolled through the room, reaching Kuryakin’s attention a split second before a familiar set of footsteps did. He glanced up from his book. Napoleon Solo headed for his remote corner, looking as dashing as always in an expensive tuxedo. The cooler he carried in one hand seemed completely out of place. He plopped the cooler onto his old partner’s workstation. “I thought you could use this.”

Illya looked at him over his glasses in mock annoyance. “Did Sheila stand you up?”

“Stephanie, actually, and we went for an early seating.” Napoleon dug out two small glasses out of his inner jacket pocket and placed them next to the cooler. He then rolled over a chair and settled next to his partner. “She understood completely about my wanting to monitor the Y2K turnover.”

“It’s not like anything critical will be affected, you know.”

“Like you, I don’t want to take any chances. Besides, I know all about the legacy code.”

Illya gave him a disbelieving look. “You actually lowered yourself to read the status reports, then.”

“Hey, it’s been all over the news the past three years. Even I would be bound to notice.”

“If you say so.”

“Okay, you got me there. But I heard about the bank cards failing the day before yesterday in England so I went back and read through the latest Y2K reports. And I noted that you were one of five old-time agents on duty around the world tonight. Then it occurred to me. The current systems interface with the old, old system—the one you helped create way before these kids’ parents—“ and he gestured towards the programmers—“had even hit puberty.”

“You have such a graceful way of discussing age, Napoleon.”

“So when Y2K hit Asia and Europe and the world didn’t come to an end, I thought I might as well stop by and reward you for your vigilance.” He opened the cooler and fished out a bottle of vodka. “Sorry it’s only Stoli, darling, but it’s what I had in the freezer.” He scooped out an icecube for each glass, poured a healthy shot in each, and gave one to Kuryakin. “No nibbles, either, I’m afraid.”

“I can survive without them as long as you spare me further _Absolutely Fabulous_ quotes. I suppose it’s something Stephanie watches?”

Solo shrugged. “I don’t get much of it myself, but Joanna Lumley more than makes up for my lack of understanding. Anyway, to your health.”

“Salud.”  Kuryakin downed the frostily burning liquid in a quick wrist flick.

Solo sipped at his. “Fifteen minutes to go.”

“Thirteen minutes and 20 or so seconds, according to Mr. Dick Clark.”  He pointed at the small RealVideo screen on his monitor that carried the broadcast. “Why seeing a ball drop in Times Square should merit the decades of coverage it has received may forever remain beyond my comprehension.”

“Have you ever seen it in person?”

“Too many people for my taste. Even if I were inclined to go, however, I wouldn’t go this year. Those sealed manhole covers will only encourage Thrush or some other deluded organization to play havoc with the sewer system.”

Napoleon smiled. “So you _do_ think the world’s going to end in a few minutes.”

“No. Not really. It’s just that U.N.C.L.E. headquarters is the quietest place I could think of tonight, and all I really want to do is to pass the evening quietly with my book.” Illya motioned for a refill.

“What are you reading?”

“ _False Colours.”_

“Never heard of it. Who’s the author?” Napoleon refilled the Russian’s glass.

“Georgette Heyer.”

“The romance writer?”

“Her books are more comedies of manners than true romances, and they’re much more intelligent than, say, John Grisham’s oeuvre.”

“I’ll take your word for it, my friend.” Solo loosened his bow tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “How did you discover her?”

“That young American lady, on the Adriatic Express.”

“That was a helluva long time ago. And I’m surprised you remember anything of that trip, the way you were consuming that champagne.”

“I needed the protection. The young lady in question was much too forward.”

“You mean you don’t like your butt squeezed repeatedly?”

“Not by a new acquaintance.”

“Still…that was almost 35 years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Thirty four.”

“Did you ever think then that you’d still be alive at the start of the new millennium?”

“At the risk of sounding like a math geek, the new millennium starts in 2001.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I have always made it a point not to think too far ahead into the future. There’s never a guarantee one would make it that far. And you?”

Solo shrugged. “I knew I was destined for the Old Man’s chair. I just thought that if I made it to 2000, I would be really old and mostly useless. Now…. I still feel like me. Oh, sure, I get the occasional twinge here and there and my eyesight’s not what it was, but I’m basically fully functional.” He glanced over at Illya’s monitor. “Is that 3 minutes or 8 minutes?”

“Three.”

“Time for a refill, then, unless you’d rather hold out for some champers?”

“Napoleon….less Comedy Central, more History Channel.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Go claim a champagne bottle, then, before the toddlers get it all.”

“Yes, mother.” Solo retreated to the refreshment table, giving the younger generation a triumphant grin as he swept a bottle out of the cooling bucket. He grabbed two plastic champagne flutes off the table, then returned to his partner and set the entire haul down in front of him.

“One minute eighteen,” Illya noted.

“Would you like to do the honors, or should I?”

Kuryakin brushed imaginary lint off his black turtleneck. “I’m hardly dressed for it.”

“Very true, Mister K.” Solo removed the gold foil and wire cage off the bottle, then wrapped a handkerchief around the cork. “If you’d give the countdown, I’ll work on the timing.”

“Thirteen, twelve, eleven….”

Several of the programmers joined in the count, as others readied their corks. On half a dozen monitors, the countdown reached zero, the ball dropped in Times Square, and the fireworks started. Several corks went flying into the ceiling; Solo’s cork merely came out into his hand. He poured for both himself and Illya, then placed the bottle back down and claimed his glass. He silently toasted the others in the room, then turned to the Russian. “Welcome to the new millennium.”

Illya clinked glasses, took a sip, and quickly checked the status monitor displayed on his monitor. “And as expected, no glitches, power failures, or computer freezes—proving yet again that the media tends to traumatize people by assuming the worst.”

“Just think of all the apocalypse fans crushed that the world didn’t go up in flames.”

“Well, there’s still several hours to go until the entire world has entered the new millennium. And there are still those who contends that the new millennium doesn’t start until next year.”

“Your point being….?”

“My point being that I need a refill.” Kuryakin held out his glass.

Solo chuckled, refilled both glasses, and settled back to watch the news coverage and status monitor over Kuryakin’s shoulder.


End file.
